


Nothing But Strangers

by SidneySydney



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Canon Compliant, Developing Relationship, M/M, Pre-Voltron: Legendary Defender, Psychological Drama, Slow Burn, Unreliable Narrator, Unrequited Crush, klance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2018-01-29
Packaged: 2019-03-05 05:03:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13380732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SidneySydney/pseuds/SidneySydney
Summary: Keith and Lance didn't have a history, they had nothing.A Garrison Prequel where strangers become....strangers once again.*UPDATES POSTPONED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE* Not fully abandoned, just paused.





	1. Prologue: First and Last

The very first conversation Keith ever had with Lance McClain went something like this: 

"Are you okay?" 

"I'm fantastic."

"You're collapsed in the middle of the cafeteria." 

"Just resting." 

"In the middle of the cafeteria?" 

"You know how some writers like to write in cafes?" 

"No?"

"I like to rest on the floor in Garrison cafeteria's." 

"What's your name? I'm calling the nurse." 

"Lance McClain and you're not calling the nurse." 

"Your nose is bleeding, and judging by the mess around here you passed out." 

"That's ridicu—"

"Also everyone is staring at you." 

"They're jealous of how comfy and resourceful I am." 

"They're debating whether to dump their rubbish on you as a joke. You're about to be bullied. Are you okay with that?" 

...

"What's your name?"

"Keith Kogane." 

"Keith Kogane, I kindly ask you to fuck off and leave me to rest in peace. Everything happening to me right now is happening exactly as I wanted it to, except for you. So shoo." 

Keith left Lance McClain lying there with a brand new chip on his shoulder. He didn't think about him again until class the next morning when he noticed the seat in front of him was empty. 

"Ma'am," he addressed the teacher with a raised hand. Her pinched face nodded for him to continue. "Where's the guy who sits in front of me?" Keith didn't like how the gap opened him up to the rest of the class. 

"Lance is absent from class for health purposes, that's all I can tell you, Keith." 

 

 

The very last conversation Keith ever had with Lance went a lot like this: 

"I can't stand you." 

"Lance—" 

"Can't even look you in the eye."

"Lance, shut up." 

"Can't even stand to be in the same room as you." 

"Don't—"

"Makes me feel sick." 

"I—" 

"No. Here's what's going to happen: Forget me and I'll forget you so the next time we meet we can be nothing but strangers." 

"I _can't_ forget, Lance." 

"Here, I'll start and make it easier for you." 

 

Lance left and once again, for the last time, the image of Lance's back burned its way into Keith's head. 

 

 

Their story began as strangers, and it ended as strangers, too. 

What happened in between was                  _nothing_. 

 

 

 

Keith and Lance were

 

 

 

nothing


	2. Misfitting Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay random Garrison story out of nowhere as inspiration hit (also out of nowhere). I won't give much away, as I like to keep my writing elusive, but I will say that there will be some mature themes: Violence, some gore, swearing and psychological intensities.
> 
> Also note this is not connected to my other works in any way, it's completely independent. In regards to the other works: I do plan on continuing, I just found myself very busy at the end of last year with uni, my birthday and a big trip to UK/Ireland. I can't say when I'll continue, but I will. I'm starting this to renew my writing fluidity again. 
> 
> Anyway, happy new year, Merry Christmas all!

Keith was a good student.

It was an indisputable fact that perhaps no one else believed, however, Keith valued the opinion of others about as much as he valued the ground beneath his feet. Which was to say, very little. Keith was born to fly, and the solid earth felt like nothing but another set of shackles for him, another reminder of just how grounded he really was. 

So sure, perhaps he wasn't a good student in the textbook logic of things. But he _was_ a fast-learner, independent and daring, though for whatever reason the Garrison didn't seem the value these traits. Instead, they somehow they got twisted into impulsive, loner and reckless. Keith didn't appreciate being labelled and categorised this way, however when he told Shiro as much that morning before class he didn't receive the support he was hoping for. 

"You're taking this all too personally. It's not an attack, it's a report," he pointed out over a mouthful of toast, a finger stabbing into the bundle of paper between them. "They're there to point out what you're excelling or lacking in and offer advice on how to improve." 

"I'm the best pilot in my year," Keith mumbled with plenty of scorn. 

"Yet ironically you're the worst public speaker, too." 

"It's not like I'm going to 'public speak' my way into a real aircraft." Keith turned his scowl down to his cereal bowl. This porridge tasted like wet paper and utter boredom incarnate so he snatched the honey to drown out the awful _nothingness_  of it all. 

"Not too much honey, Keith, it's bad for you. And so is this attitude of yours," Shiro said in that voice he always used on his subordinates. Keith didn't appreciate it. 

Hesitantly he placed the honey back down, Shiro glaring at the obvious new gap in the substance the whole way. "I don't have an attitude," Keith defended.  

"You do," Shiro responded as he pushed himself up from the table. "And it's got to go. Get to class, make a friend or two, smile and actually write something in your notebook." 

"I have." 

"Drawing doesn't count." 

"They're good drawings." 

"Maybe, but this isn't art school." 

Keith was too annoyed to respond, so he only huffed and shovelled a mouthful of food viciously into his mouth. Shiro always did this—yanked back hard in the opposite direction of where Keith wanted to go. Too bad for Shiro, Keith had played this game for far longer. 

"Oh," he heard Shiro add on from the door. "And I'm locking you out of the staff common room. From now on you eat with kids your own age, no more special privileges." 

Okay so perhaps Shiro could still play the game. Keith's head fell with a defeated bang against the table. 

* * *

Keith sat in the most ideal spot in the class room. Right in the very centre behind one obnoxiously tall boy, in front of a know-it-all boy, and between two best friends who spent their days gossiping around his shoulders. Thus, being surrounded by four loudmouths meant he faded into the background like a broken radio. He avoided potential humiliation this way for certainly the boy in front of him had it covered. His thin gangly arms flew around at amazing speed and his voice had a way of piercing the air like an arrow. For a time it had irritated Keith, though he'd managed to tune it out eventually. 

Now, it was simply useful to hide behind. 

"Textbooks open to page fifty-six," their teacher commanded, her sharp eyes immediately diving to the boy in front of Keith. "Mr McClain," she prompted. 

The boy, who was still busy rifling through his bag looked up and responded with a short, panicked, "Right, yes, on it."   

Mrs Anderson was a hard and unforgivable calculus teacher who tolerated very little, which was why Keith was happy enough to spend his days hiding from her view. 

Her dark eyes scanned the room once more and Keith could have sworn he felt everyone flinch further back inside their seats. "Workbooks open, pens out, you'll be completing the first ten equations in your textbook." 

Keith nodded along blandly with everyone else. Honestly how did Shiro think Keith was the only one pretending to understand this? He'd love to see the look on Shiro's face if he ever had to explain what the fuck was going on in this room. So as everyone put their heads down to scribble down nonsense numbers Keith began working on his first scribble for the day, the pencil in his hand held like a weapon as he scratched into the paper. He labelled it sketch #128 and set to work. 

Once sketch #128 was complete he flicked back through the previous sketches and noted that the boy in front of him had a haircut recently, he'd also grown at least an inch within the last six months. 

Huh. 

* * *

At recess Keith walked with Shiro around the Garrison training grounds. There was a question lingering on his tongue he was both too afraid to ask and too selfish not to. 

As always, it came out anyway. "Have you heard anything about Kerberos yet?" 

Shiro shook his head, looking distraught in that way good people like him always tried to hide—contained and quiet, written only in their eyes. Shiro wanted this more than anything. 

It shamed Keith how much it made him glad. He was an utterly appalling person. 

But there it was again, that little voice inside his head,  _please don't leave me here alone._

* * *

If Keith had to name the worst place on Earth he wouldn't even hesitate when he told you it was the Garrison cafeteria. Perhaps he was biased, for according to Shiro he had had too many special 'privileges', however Keith's opinion on Shiro's opinion was at an all time low. 

So...biased, then. 

Whatever. 

"You can't sit there," defended the girl he tried to sit besides, his tray gripped tightly between his fingers to the point it trembled. This place made him feel erratic and raw.   

"It's empty," he pointed out dryly. 

"Only for another two min—" 

"Forget it, I don't care," Keith cut her off before she could humiliate him in front of her friends and he slunk off in the opposite direction.

The entire room had this icky feeling attached to it, as if there was a layer of grease over every wall, bench and tray. Even the people shone with the adolescent gleam of sweat and puberty. His hands felt slippery with the greasiness already and the air was hot and thick in his throat. Suddenly he was very aware of the fact that he was about to be sick. Damn his sensitive stomach. Abandoning his tray in some random guy's hands, who promptly answered with a, "Thanks, pal," Keith dashed off to the toilets and threw himself over the sink to hurl his breakfast and recess into the drain. There were other boys muttering their disgust around him but Keith couldn't care less. 

Another thing about the cafeteria: Keith felt so very _singular_. The cafeteria was a place of groups and certain clicks and conversations, everyone had at least one other person with them. So the movement, the noise, and the complete frenetic energy of the room shot Keith's nerves through the roof. 

Curse Shiro and his stupid ideas. Curse him for forcing Keith to follow regulation. Keith didn't _do_ regulation, he did just fine on his own. Of course, anyone would dispute this claim seeing him flopped so pathetically over the basin like this. Remember when Keith said he didn't care for other people's opinions, though? Ha! Yeah. 

"Are you alright?" inquired a voice Keith much rather never ever hear again in his life. 

"Peachy," he responded over top of another retch. It echoed obscenely in the bathroom which left Keith feeling plenty insecure. 

He heard encroaching footsteps and stiffened. "You're so full of shit, Kogane. I kinda dig it." 

_Jesus. H. Christ._

Jeremy Springer was the sole openly gay student in the Garrison and for some reason seemed to be under the impression that Keith was too. Of course, Keith _was_ , in actuality—gay that is. Not the open bit though. If everything about Keith was already closed off behind doors, then his sexuality was undoubtably closed off by three extra doors all encrypted with multiple security platforms. None of which Jeremy needed to know, yet somehow figured out for himself anyway.

"You dig vulnerable boys kneeling over the bathroom sink hurling their guts out? Lame, and a little creepy," he answered drily, peeling himself away from the sink and cupping his hands beneath the tap to wash out his mouth. Thank God for automatic taps. 

"I dig people with a spine." 

"Joke's on you, I'm actually invertebrate. Give me two hours and I'll collapse into a puddle of flesh and muscle, now leave me alone." 

"Oh c'mon, Keith. We both know you're beating around the bush here." 

"I wasn't aware of this. There is no bush, and no beating." 

"Go out with me." 

"I'm good, _thanks_." 

"With going on a date with me? Great!" 

"Jeremy," Keith addressed firmly, his voice still rough from emptying his stomach. "Leave me alone." Leaning heavily against the sink he allowed his head to sink between his shoulders. These advances of Jeremy's weren't new or a surprise, more like a tedious regularity, like brushing your teeth or wiping your ass. You hardly wanted to deal with it, but it was a universal guarantee that you will face it. 

Jeremy held up his hands, his slim, pale face smug and all too pleased with himself. "Fine, fine. I'll see you soon, Kogane." 

Ass. Hole. 

* * *

Keith remained hidden in the bathroom until the bell rang, signalling the end of lunch, and, apparently, the students' capacity to be decent to each other. The grand shuffle back to class was always an event Keith stayed well away from, the hallways streaming with hundreds of kids and teachers rushing to make their classes on time. You were bound to be sworn at at least twice on your way down the main A Block corridor, famous for its peak-time traffic. You weren't even safe from abuse from the teachers. No one was pleasant at this time. 

Keith avoided all this by simply leaving after everyone else, which, of course always ended up with him getting another timeliness scolding by his teacher. But sacrifices were made by people everyday, this was simply Keith's. He despised the rush of class time. There was just too much of  _everything._

Pulling himself reluctantly away from the bathroom he slowly made his way back into the cafeteria again when he noticed a slight commotion in the middle of the room. Curiosity like a tick in his side, he crept over to get a good look at the apparently distraction enough issue that had people sacrificing their class time. When he finally managed to get a glimpse of the boy on the ground he was...unimpressed. It was just another imbecile doing imbecile things. 

Yawn. 

Only, this boy's nose was bleeding steadily and he looked as though he was struggling through the cloud of unconsciousness. The students around him were sniggering and pointing their greasy, unwashed fingers at him like they had nothing to be ashamed over themselves. One boy even dared to kick the fallen boy's tray halfway across the room with the words, "Nice on, McClain." It struck some kind of fresh nerve in Keith and, for perhaps the first time in his life, had him stepping in. 

"Leave him alone." 

The group of girls still sniggering to his left paused and gave him a collective scornful brush of their eyes. "Why should we? He's just being ridiculous, as usual." 

"Not sure if you noticed, but his nose is bleeding." 

"Oh, we noticed, we have _plenty_ of pictures," the red haired 'leader' laughed, waving her phone at Keith in emphasis. 

Keith never understood the way kids tried so  _hard_ to be so  _awful_ to each other and wasn't about to start now. He ignored her, and crouched down in front of the kid still shaking himself back into the waking world. He flicked him on the forehead to help. 

"Are you okay?" he asked, watching the way the boy's face scrunched up in confusion. 

The boy answered immediately. "I'm fantastic."

"You're collapsed in the middle of the cafeteria," Keith pointed out, gesturing to the boy's sprawled out body before him.  

"Just resting." 

"In the middle of the cafeteria?" 

"You know how some writers like to write in cafes?" he asked Keith, giving him a 'look'. 

Keith rose a single, confused brow. "No?" 

"I like to rest on the floor in Garrison cafeterias."

He sounded all too proud of himself and Keith honestly couldn't tell whether he was bullshitting this or not. What he was certain of was that this kid needed a nurse. He couldn't tell if he'd been punched in the nose or if it was bleeding through fault of it's own, either way, it was concerning. 

"What's your name? I'm calling the nurse," Keith declared. 

The boy's face twisted at this, blue eyes turning into savage slits. "Lance McClain and you're not calling the nurse." 

"Your nose is bleeding, and judging by the mess around here you passed out." 

"That's ridicu—"

"Also everyone is staring at you." 

Lance paused, those fiery blue eyes wandering around the room in some kind of deep thought. Then: "They're jealous of how comfy and resourceful I am." 

"They're debating whether to dump their rubbish on you as a joke. You're about to be bullied. Are you okay with that?" 

Again, another pause. Lance definitely looked dazed, Keith decided. Probably a result of hitting your head on the ground in the middle of a blackout, which was why he _definitely_ needed a nurse. 

"What's your name?" the boy finally decided to ask. 

"Keith Kogane." 

"Keith Kogane, I kindly ask you to fuck off and leave me to rest in peace. Everything happening to me right now is happening exactly as I wanted it to, except for you. So shoo." 

Keith, never one to miss out on the opportunity, fucked off immediately. If Lance wanted to be bullied so badly that he'd insult Keith to do it, then he wouldn't stop him. Though harsh as they were, his thoughts didn't stop the curl of regret inside him when he heard the students behind him laughing in that cruel way of theirs and the crash of another tray that was surely being dumped on McClain. However, he kept his back to it all, as usual. Every man for himself, right? At least that's what his father taught him. 

He was beginning to think his father wasn't as smart as Keith had thought him to be. 

But this had nothing to do with him. If McClain wished to be a victim, then what right did Keith have to deny him that? 

The thought left a bad taste in his mouth. 

* * *

"You just left him there?" Shiro asked that night over dinner, his face a mask of disappointment. Keith had to look away. He hated that look directed at him. 

Keith shrugged. "Of course I did, he didn't want my help. It wasn't my place."  

He could see Shiro shaking his head from the corner of his eye. "You really have no idea, do you?" 

"About what?" 

Keith didn't receive an answer, at least not then.

* * *

Keith would forget it all the next morning, but he dreamt about the boy that night— _Lance McClain._ Sprawled out on the cafeteria ground again, Lance was unmoving and his nose running rivets of blood down his face. The sight felt...wrong. The colour  _red_ felt wrong on the other boy. Red reminded Keith of violence and pain, of the time his father came home all bruised and cut up without explanation, of the time Keith accidentally cut his hand on his secret blade, of the time he smashed his fist into his bathroom mirror upon finding out his father had been killed in a car crash. When he'd looked back upon his reflection his face was distorted with blood and cracks. Red reminded Keith of violence, of his own past, and present even. 

Violence wasn't something Keith associated at all with Lance, despite hardly knowing a thing about him.

It didn't fit.

Didn't match.

Two pieces from two different puzzles. 

Lance had been faced with violence and only laid back to receive it. It bewildered Keith beyond comprehension—his father had always taught him that you always hit back and never settle. 

_ Are you okay? _  Keith's voice echoed around them, he didn't remember opening his mouth. 

Neither did Lance's mouth move when he answered, _I'm_ _ fantastic. _

Keith had a question on his tongue he wanted to ask, a foreign curiosity compelling him as he looked down at Lance's prone body. So: _What does the world look like from down there? _

_ Insignificant.  _

_ I don't understand.  _

_ Lay down and you'll understand.  _

Keith lay down, his head next to Lance's and arms folded over his chest. Lance didn't look at him the entire time, only continued to stare giddily upwards, seemingly unaware of the crowd of people laughing and pointing their greasy fingers at them. 

_ Now what? _  Keith asked, feeling foolish, but compelled forwards regardless. The laughter around him was sharp and cruel in his ears and he was about to lift his hands to cover them when a hand on his elbow stopped him. It was cool against his skin. 

_Ignore it all. Just keep looking up and imagine the sky. Everything else will fade away. Trust me._

Keith found this unlikely, and never found people who asked him to trust them anymore trustworthy than the rest. However, he took in a deep lungful of air and did as Lance instructed. The hand at his elbow still lingered as Keith allowed his body to press further into the ground and his mind to loosen. He imagined it as a piece of rope, knotted in the centre, and pictured it gradually undoing itself into a single, uninterrupted line. As the rope began to slacken so did his mind and he realised that his eyes were shut and the voices were nothing muffled noises, as if they were in seperate rooms. 

_ Open your eyes, _ came Lance's soft voice, which also sounded far away. 

He opened his eyes.

And there was the sky, blue as Lance's eyes. 

Huh. 

* * *

At breakfast the next morning Keith felt oddly disconnected from himself. So much so that when he reached for the honey again he noticed his arm felt further away than it was in reality. The table, too, felt twice as long, and Shiro twice as far away. It made him viciously dizzy and suddenly not at all hungry. 

"Hey, Keith," Shiro said suddenly into the silence, breaking Keith's random fasination with his arm. 

"Hmm?" 

"I made it." 

"Made what?" 

"The Kerberos mission. I'm going to space. In six months," he said very carefully to Keith, who felt those probing, dark eyes scanning over his face. 

_ Oh.  _

"Oh. That's..." he began, stumbling over himself. 

Three long seconds passed in which Keith's mouth hung open uselessly, his eyes hot and damp all of a sudden. "Keith?" Shiro prompted. 

"That's fantastic, Shiro. I'm so— _happy_ for you," he said at the same time his entire heart plummeted to the ground. 

_ Why are you leaving me, too?  _

He felt emptier than he ever had. 

* * *

Keith got sent to detention that day for throwing a punch at Chris Humphrey when he pushed one too many of his buttons. Apparently, it was 'in' to joke about orphans these days and Keith had been feeling raw and vulnerable already with the space in front of him absent of Lance McClain. The teacher had picked on him. Then Jeremy had hit on him. Finally Chris pushed that final decisive button. 

_How's it going, orphan?_

He was sent to the nurse with a broken nose, blood gushing as red as Lance's had yesterday.  

* * *

When he walked into detention there was only one other person there. 

Lance McClain. 

Oh man, it was honestly epic how bad Keith's days could get. It was like watching a landslide that only got bigger and messier with every passing minute—collecting debris and speed, but  _never ever_ ending. 

Lance was looking warily at him over his shoulder with those blue eyes as the teacher directed Keith to sit directly beside him. He didn't miss the way Lance shuffled further to the right of his seat to get away from Keith. Actions like that had stopped hurting Keith's feelings long before he started at the Garrison. He was a generally disagreeable person, so whatever. Keith also didn't miss the obvious bruising over the bridge of his nose. So he  _had_ been punched by someone yesterday. 

But when his eyes flew to the kid's knuckles he saw no evidence of him hitting back: no cuts or bruises. So he just accepted it? Why not fight back?   

They both flinched in their seats when the teacher's chair screamed against the floor as he pushed away from the table. "I need to use the bathroom quickly. You know the drill, no talking, no standing and no runaways," he said in a dry, toneless voice. Detention, Keith decided, was just as awful for teachers as it was for students, it would seem. As soon as the teacher left Lance opened his mouth. 

Sigh. Here we go. 

"So, what are you in for, Kogane?"  

"Broke Chris Humphrey's nose," Keith answered with a shrug. "You?" 

"Had my nose broken by Chris Humphrey," he said all too cheerily, with a long finger pointed at his face. 

"You're in detention for being  _bullied_?" 

Lance shook his head, finally turning to face Keith. His face was all sharp angles and fine points, Keith was worried he'd cut himself. "No, I'm in detention for skipping class." 

"I don't follow. Mrs Anderson said you were ill." 

Shooting a couple of finger guns at Keith, he answered, "That's what she's _supposed_ to say."  

Keith leaned in a little closer to peer at Lance's face, searching for the punchline, but found his expression completely unreadable. He always seemed to have a dramatic smile etched into his face, so fake and made up it obscured any real emotion that may exist beneath. It was like trying to read the expression of a Barbie Doll. 

Lance was nothing but plastic.

"I'm still at a loss here," Keith admitted in defeat. 

"Don't worry, Kogane," Lance began, his smile curling disconcertingly upwards at the edges. "I'm nothing but a misfit sitting in detention. That's all you need to know." 

A beat passed between which Lance turned away from Keith to instead crack his knuckles. The sound echoed through the silent room and eventually, Keith responded with. "Nothing but a misfit, huh?" 

"Absolutely, that's me. Nothing more, nothing less."  

Just before the door opened again Keith quietly added, "Well that makes two of us."  


	3. Plastic People

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith has an issue that will surface, though not in the way he expects.

"Keith, I’d like you to meet Matt Holt," Shiro introduce a couple days later, a sturdy hand braced against his shoulder. As if to remind him:  _don’t run off_. It felt like a heavy weight being pressed into him, heavy, rooting Keith to the floor. Usually the weight was grounding, comforting and affectionate, but now he felt his bones ache under the pressure. "He and his father will be joining me on the Kerberos mission." 

Matt Holt held out a hand. Keith stared at it. He had long, pale fingers, his knuckles littered with various scrapes and bruises. _Definitely an engineer._  He also thought, with bitterness,  _his hands look just like mine._ Slowly, cautiously, he reached out a hand to shake Matt's, knowing it’s what Shiro wanted. There was a pleased quirk at his lip that suggest Keith was right. 

"It's so great to meet you," Matt said hurriedly, a sideways grin on his face. He had a mop of light brown hair and warm eyes. Keith might have found them comforting if they weren't currently tracking back to Shiro. As he spoke, his eyes remained fastened on Shiro. Stuck there. Lingering. "Shiro and I used to be in the same homeroom, though he was the year above me. He always spoke highly of you." 

"Keith was certainly a character," Shiro confirmed, unhelpfully in Keith's opinion. 

_Am I?_

"You're one to talk," Matt laughed. 

Shiro was laughing, too. 

Keith was not. 

He peered over his shoulder to Shiro curiously, who was brushing a hand through his hair, the tuff of hair flopping back over his forehead immediately. It was a wholly redundant action, but he knew what it meant. Shiro was nervous.  _Terribly_ nervous, by the rate his hand kept fussing over other parts of his body; his arms, his neck, his thighs and chin.  

Had Shiro and Matt not been looking at Keith and chuckling over a joke he didn’t understand he might have rolled his eyes. Shiro was an impeccable human, but even he had his pitfalls.

Shiro’s was that he was a marginally compulsive liar in all things related to Keith. 

So, here's a brief history of Keith and Shiro: 

Keith wasn’t incredibly notable, it was fact as the sky was blue. Although Shiro would disagree—his first lie. His second would be when he denied said lying. 

It was simply the way it had always been for Keith, not that he minded. Maybe it was because he sunk into the shadows like dark ink. Or the way his voice became entangled, twisted and lost in a crowd; Keith despised yelling. Or, as his father used to tell him, maybe it was how he hunched his shoulders too much and thus stunted his growth. He was simply overlooked, even as he stared directly back at people—and he'd think,  _can't you see me?_

It was just the way it was, an accepted truth. A way of life. Keith knew no better, knew nothing of the importance of ‘standing out.’ He was the sole person in his father’s life, why would he need to stand out?

Perhaps that was the line of thinking that lead his father to leave. Did he not notice Keith as he walked out that door? Would he have stayed if he'd seen him? He didn't even look Keith in the eye. Maybe Keith should have done something; spoken up, argued, clutched, screamed for him to not go. _Stand out._ Make a point. Make his father notice him. He did none of those things, only stared from his place on the mouldy couch, a deadly knife in his small, shaking hands and then  _THUD_. The door slammed shut behind his father forever, and Keith felt it echo through his entire body, rattling his teeth and bones inside of him. He sometimes still felt that sensation rock through him again—sometimes wake up in the night with a jerk upon hearing that same, final noise. 

His heart closed off just as that door did.

 _Thud._  If the people around him always ended up leaving him behind, he didn't want them in the first place.

 _Thud._ I won't be fooled again.

_T h  u   d._

Keith gave up feeling grief over his father's disappearance the moment the tall lady with long, dark hair had walked in with the words, "We're your family now," on her painted lips. He glared at her between clumps of oily hair, and she returned it with equal intensity. She hurried him out of the desert shack, into her vehicle and drove him away. He glared at the back of her head like he could burn holes into it. He didn't want her, whoever she was.

He didn't want _anyone_. 

Her name was Amelie Shirogane.

Keith used to write her name in black crayon inside the sketchbook she'd first offered him upon his arrival hoping to spur his creativity or something ridiculous like that. He'd held that crayon like a weapon, slicing her name into the paper like a threat, and then he’d leave it on her desk for when she arrived home. Whenever she asked why he did this, he simply responded with, "I hate your name. I want to make it look as ugly as possible."

"Why is that?" she’d ask.

"I don't want you to like me."

" _Why_  is that, Keith?" she’d repeat.

"Because of the door!" he’d shouted, storming into his new bedroom and slamming the door shut behind him.

_Thud._

That was the first time he'd ever truly yelled.

Amelie made Keith angry like no one else ever had. Although, to be fair, Keith hadn't known many people to begin with. It was limited to his father and the strange people who came every month to deliver them food and supplies. Once he was around people...well, it was the first time he'd really felt anger—that fiery burn in the centre of his stomach. He'd calmed the flames to a mere simmer as he grew older, but it was always there. It was as though being around people pressed it all out of him, he didn’t like their expectations or rules. He felt trapped within these people. 

A few days later he was introduced to another new person.

Takashi Shirogane.

Takashi made him even _angrier_.

"Hi, I'm Shiro," said the fourteen-year-old boy Keith didn't care about.

He stuck his lower lip out, sitting on his cold, annoyingly well-made bed and hating every moment of it. Hating Shiro. Hating the ugly floral wallpaper that Amelie promised she'd change soon (He didn’t believe her) He hated the very air he breathed; it was like breathing something stale and used.

"Hi, your name sucks. Get out," he responded, turning his face away to glare at the ugly wallpaper instead.

Shiro's smile faltered, he caught it in the corner of his eye, falling flat as he figured out what else to say. He had a scattering of acne over his right cheek. Yuck. Other people were _disgusting_. 

"Umm," the boy Keith hated started awkwardly, a hand at the back of his neck. "It's not the most common name, I guess. My mother was from Japan, you see."

"I don't care. Get out."

"That's rude, Keith."

"Don't call me that."

"Don't call you by your name?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because of the _door_."

Shiro paused, a brow arched as he looked over his shoulder at the bedroom entrance. "Is there something wrong with the door?"

"Yeah," Keith muttered against his knees, which he'd pulled up to defensively tuck under his chin. A barrier. A shield. _His door_. "You're inside it."

The moment Shiro's face finally twisted with annoyance, he almost sighed with relief.  _Good, now leave me alone._  However, the boy's expression smoothed over as quickly as it contorted and he was smiling again. Keith sank further back into himself. Shiro smiled with the intensity of the brightest star, and it was...distracting. Keith blamed it on the silvery reflection of the boy's braces. It was almost enough to ignore the acne. Almost. 

"We could always take the door off, that way I wouldn't be inside it. No door, no problem." His grin sparkled. Again,  _braces._  Keith wanted to douse that smile with something dark and sickly. Like tar. Just tarnish it enough to keep himself safe from its effects. 

It was so _plastic._ Shiro was obviously annoyed at Keith, yet here he was smiling like they were best friends. He despised it.

"I hate you."

Yet still, he smiled, and replied, easily, "I'll see you at dinner, Keith." 

That was the first conversation Keith had ever had with Shiro, and it certainly wasn't the last, much to his initial displeasure. The kid was simply far too eager to be friendly with Keith, no matter how much pushback he received.

And after five years of being friendly, when Keith was fifteen and another new (reluctant) cadet in the Galaxy Garrison, he succeeded. Shiro must have done _something_  right, because somewhere along the line Keith decided he'd die for the other boy if it came down to it. The thought concerned him as much as it pushed him into the Garrison, if only it meant he could stay close to Shiro. Suddenly the thought of being  _without_  Shiro became more unbearable than being with him, and Keith decided it was the one exception he'd ever make. So long as he had Shiro, he'd manage.

One person.

That's all he'd ever allow himself. A crack in the door. A sliver of light, just for Keith.   

If Shiro ever tried walking out that door he'd have to drag Keith kicking and screaming along with him.  _You're my one. You don't get to leave me._

It was a dangerous way to function. 

The truth was Keith was an awful person. He was selfish, bad tempered, didn’t play well with others and was generally disagreeable. The only outstanding thing about him was his natural ability to pilot, the rest of him was absolute garbage. He shouldn't have even technically made it into the Garrison, let alone the fighter pilot division (at least, hopefully—results were announced in three months.) Shiro knew this from the very beginning, knew all of Keith’s issues, but yet…

 _"He's a real hard worker,"_ Shiro would eagerly say to the principle during his interviews, that plastic grin on his perfect face. 

_“Meticulous.”_

_“Attention to detail.”_

_“Well behaved.”_

_“Attentive.”_

_“Kind.”_

_“Intelligent.”_

Shiro threw all these kinds of words at Keith's superiors, each one more fake than the last. He painted out Keith's name in gold—immortalised him. Bought, sold and auctioned his way into the Garrison and saved his ass when he was on the verge of being thrown out. Amelie paid for it all, signed all the papers, fitted his uniform, labelled his books, but it was Shiro who secured Keith's golden ticket in. And as much as Keith was ever thankful, he despised the lies, the up-selling and the fiction. Shiro gave him the perfect image, only Keith wasn't capable of ever upholding it. He didn't do institutions like Shiro did.   

 _"Why don't you like to learn?"_ Shiro had asked once after picking up Keith from detention. 

_"I like learning just fine, just not under their thumb."_

_"Well their thumb is the only thing that will get you into a real aircraft."_

So, a 'character' indeed Keith was, just not the kind of character Shiro liked to pretend he was.  

Unfortunately, though not according to _Shiro_ , Keith was also prone to festering jealously; and after watching the familiar actions and talk between Matt and Shiro for the last twenty minutes Keith was feeling indignation slowly seep in. It made him feel dirty the same way grease on your hands did; the more you try to wipe it away, the more you just smear it further over your skin. Totally redundant.

Suddenly Matt's hand was on Keith's other shoulder and his face disconcertingly close, a sideways grin etched into his  _too friendly_ face _._ "I know you're probably not too eager about surrendering Shiro to the depths of space, but I promise I'll look after him," he chuckled in that way older cousins would, as if you were ten years younger than them than you were. A superiority complex. 

Keith  _hated_ all things _superior._

But he also owed Shiro some decency after landing himself in detention again. 

He smiled back at Matt, it felt like trying to ply open solid rock—brittle, dry and fucking painful. "That's a relief." Even his voice sounded gritty. _Humiliating?_ "He's the worst at remembering to eat sometimes, and getting enough sleep. He's his own worst enemy." 

Both Shiro and Matt began laughing, their hands still gripping Keith's shoulders, they felt heavier than they ought to be. They were laughing at Keith's joke, laughing, laughing, laughing, but when he looked at both their faces they had eyes for only one another. 

Keith excused himself so he could go sit on the toilet for half an hour staring at the vast array of graffiti that decorated the stall door. He didn't realise he was crying until he looked at himself in the bathroom mirror later and saw his faced was wet and his eyes red rimmed and puffy. He was so mad at himself for the sudden show of weakness that he was admittedly a little careless when he shoved open the bathroom door with savage force. 

He came to this realisation upon hearing a pained shout from the other side. 

Staggering back inside the bathroom, he held his breath as the source of the shout come sliding in like a snake. He had his hand wrapped around his nose and Keith could see a faint trickle of blood slipping through his fingers and splattering onto the floor below him. When the two horrifically fiery, blue eyes narrowed in on Keith he felt his stomach flop uncomfortably to the side.

"Asshole!" Lance muttered from behind his hand, causing more blood to spill from beneath. "You broke my nose. AGAIN!"

"I—I'm sorry I didn't mean to," Keith stammered pathetically, rubbing furiously at his eyes to hide evidence from his previous activities. 

"Oh, this is _so_ bad. Now I'll definitely never get a date with Rachel. Not when my nose looks like—like  _this,_ " Lance was fretting, still holding onto his nose like his life depended on it. The blood was dripping quickly through his fingers and Keith was beginning to feel a little ill looking at it. 

"I am so sorry, I'll just," he started, skimming deftly around Lance as he tried to reach the bathroom door again. "I'll leave you alone." Keith was definitely not in his right mind to deal with this right now. 

Behind his hand, Lance's muffled voice squawked indignantly, "Uhh! I don't think so! No way you're just gonna leave me here. Rule one of Galaxy Garrison: never leave a comrade behind." 

"Actually, it's follow instructions," Keith commented stupidly. 

"And one of those instructions include never leaving a comrade behind," Lance argued, the hand not on his face now resting defiantly on his hip. It might have been a decent display of showmanship had he not been rapidly losing blood. 

"You're not my comrade." 

"Not yet, but once we’re allocated to our speciality then we might." 

"I'm going for fighter class," Keith said, his hand still stretched out towards the door, but something held him back from pushing through. He waited for Lance's reply. 

"Well, so am I so—oh," he broke of, realisation dawning in those blue eyes. If Keith were in a different mood he might have smirked. "Okay so we won't be in a squad, but I still stand by what I said, you've gotta take me back to my dorm." 

Keith was struck odd by this. "Why not the nurse?" 

"Not my thing, dude," Lance shrugged, he'd moved to lean back against the hand basin now, face perhaps a little paler than it should be. 

"Nurses 'aren't your thing'? What does that even mean?" he asked incomprehensibly. 

"Means I don't want some random person touching my handsome face with their greasy hands." 

"But you need to see a nurse. They'll fix your nose. What are you going be able to do in your room?" 

"One word, or, name, rather: Hunk." 

Keith stared, not understanding. He—he felt like he should, though? Lance had a way of making not so obvious things seem suddenly a lot more obvious. So, a way of making Keith feel stupid over other even more stupid things.

Good thing Lance liked to show off with some grand explanation.

"Oh, right, you wouldn't know Hunk. He's my pal and he happens to be an expert in first aid," Lance explained. He'd removed his hand from his nose now, revealing the full extent of his...exacerbated injury. When Keith saw the dangerous rate at which his nose bled, he darted forwards to yank a handful of paper towels from the dispenser and thrust them out before Lance. 

The other kid stared at his hand suspiciously for a long moment before accepting the offering. His body was beginning to wilt forwards and Keith was eager to either get out of there or get him to a nurse. 

"I still think you should see the nurse," he tried, desperate now. 

"I said no nurse!" Lance's voice pierced through the bathroom, tight with something a that struck an achingly familiar cord within Keith. "Jesus, how many times do I have to tell you? No fucking nurse." 

"Fine," Keith said, holding his hands up, admitting defeat. No way was he pushing this any further than necessary. "No nurse. I'll take you to your room." 

Lance slowly began detaching himself from his spot on the hand basin. "Great. Let's go, then. Smells like ass in here." When Keith awkwardly stuck out an elbow to help, his mouth screwing to the side uncomfortably, Lance shooed it away. "I can walk myself just fine. I don't wanna look _pathetic_ in front of everyone." 

" _Thanks_ ," Keith bit out, considering perhaps just ditching the asshole instead. But when it came down to it, Keith had a sympathetic heart. So he’d persist.

"Just make sure I don't collapse or something." 

"Sure." 

"And if anyone asks, I won." 

"Against what? The bathroom door?" 

"Fuck you, Kogane." 

* * *

"Are you sure you don't want to see the nurse?" Keith asked once the two of them reached the boys dormitory quarters. Lance had become impossibly pale during their trek and his steps lagged behind him, as if he were walking through mud. It was painful to watch. Mostly owing to the fact that Lance was also extremely  _vocal_ about his current predicament. 

"You really know how to screw up a guy’s chances with the girl of his dreams, don't you, Kogane? You can add that onto you resume of unappealing qualities. Just under, 'Shitty teeth from the rate I grind them all day long behind Lance in class.'" 

"I _do not_ grind my teeth," Keith rebutted, crossing his arms in front of himself defensively. 

"Oh, so what I'm hearing for hours and hours on end is just in my head?" 

"Yes, that and your ‘inviting personality’," Keith added graciously, following Lance with a scowl around another corner. The kid's slim hand was gently braced against the wall as he walked, clearly using it to anchor himself upright. 

"Dick," Lance shot back, though his tone had a curl of humour to it. 

"Ass," he returned. 

After a few minutes of this back and forth exchange, they finally, blessedly, arrived at Lance's dorm. Dorm 59, written in thick, black lettering. 

"Well," began Lance, grandly, as everything about him was. The other kid had a way of moving and speaking like he was twice as big as himself, displaying exactly what he wanted people to see. When Keith imagined Lance, he imagined him in house big enough to fit all that... _grandness._ He was the kind of person who needed large, empty rooms so his arms didn't knock anything accident, and endless corridors to keep up with his long legs, and white walls to match the richness of his skin—to make him stand out. He came across as someone aware of what made him more exciting than reality. "This is me. I'll be leaving you now. I'd say thanks for watching my back on the way here, but you're the one who injured me in the first place, so, I shall not." 

"It was an accident," Keith pointed out dryly, watching Lance flop casually to lean on the wall beside his door, head tilted curiously as those narrow eyes watched Keith. He refused the squirm under his gaze but could feel the urge to in the itchiness beneath the surface of his skin. 

"Doesn't make me feel any better," he pouted.  

Keith, settling himself on the other side of the door said, "Hit me back, then." 

"Excuse me?" 

"An eye for an eye, right? What's fair is fair? Hit me back and we're even. You're pissed at me for not being careful with the door, yes?" Keith prompted, and arm falling into the space between them to gesture to Lance, who watched it with a slim, raised brow. 

"I am quite pissed, yeppo," Lance confirmed. 

"Then show it, hit me." 

"No, thanks."

"Why not?" 

Lance shrugged, a loose movement. "I try not to condone violence. My mama always used to tell me, anger gives way to more anger. It just cycles." Lance demonstrated this by circling his hand around the space in front of him. "It's bad for everyone." 

"My father always told me to always hit back." 

"And that's how dictators are made." 

"By standing your ground?" 

"By never knowing when to back down." 

"Backing down is how progress dies." 

"Standing your ground is how the wrong type of progress is born." 

"Is this what happened with Chris?” Keith snapped, feeling defensive. “He hit you, for whatever reason, and you just decided to was warranted and rolled over like a kicked pup? Just laid in the middle of the cafeteria and let people treat you like garbage." Keith was certainly agitated now. He didn't understand how Lance could be so weak willed, especially with a personality as strong as his.

The thing was, Lance didn’t even stop smiling. If he was angry, he didn’t show it.

"That's none of your business, Keithy, now, I'm leaving. Thanks for the opinion I didn't ask for. Try to keep it to yourself next time. Each to their own life, right?" he finished off with a grin that Keith absolutely knew was complete, made up _plastic_. God, did Lance grin like that when Chris decided to break his nose? Just grinned behind all the blood and gore like it was _no big deal_? Did he smile like that when the other kids chucked their garbage on him? Did he smile like that when he was slapped with detention? 

When the sudden urge to smack that grin off Lance's face hit, Keith knew it was time to cut himself out. He had no doubt Lance would just smile back at him no matter how many times he tried to wipe it off. He couldn't really argue with Lance's logic, either. What right did he have to dictate Lance's way of doing things? They were nothing but strangers in the grand scheme of things. They held absolutely zero rights to each other's lives. 

So then why did it bother him so much?

"I guess," Keith replied slowly, eyes falling away from Lance's penetratingly  _good natured_ gaze. As he moved to detach himself from the wall he felt a tug at the hem of his uniform. He paused, waiting. 

_For what?_

"One last thing, not to tell you how to live your life or anything, but I'm serious about the teeth grinding thing. It's fucking infuriating." 

Keith, apparently unable to stop himself from testing boundaries, asked, "Enough to throw a punch my way some day?" 

"Nice try, dick," Lance laughed, thin lips curled devilishly in at the corners. 

"See you later, ass," Keith used as his departing goodbye. 

* * *

When Keith arrived back to his dorm that evening Shiro was there waiting for him, laying far too comfortably on Keith's bed with his shoes most definitely  _on._ Already pissed from being exposed in class once again due to Lance’s absence, he felt his temper boil over.

Fucking _hell_ , Shiro might have been the equivalent of a God around here, but to Keith he was a massive dork at least 50% of the time. Around Keith, Shiro was even _lazy,_ a forsaken concept. "How many times do I have to tell you to take your shoes off in my dorm?" 

"You do know I'm the only reason you got this dorm, right? A private dorm." 

"And I'm forever grateful, but I also have standards," Keith bit back, kicking off his shoes, decanting his notebook and immediately throwing himself into his desk chair. He allowed himself to be spun with the momentum until stopping it with his foot and giving Shiro his full attention. "And those standards include no shoes on my linen. Iverson will kill me if my sheets are dirty during inspection." 

Reluctantly, Shiro removed his shoes from his feet and dropped them by the foot of Keith's bed. He didn’t move from Keith’s bed though, implanting his ass into his perfectly made sheets. _Big sigh._

"Better?"

"Much. Now, what the hell are you doing here?"

"Visiting." 

"You never just visit. You always have some crucial topic to discuss, usually something to do with my academic behaviour," Keith pointed out, crossing his legs out in front of him and throwing his head over the backrest. He was disgusted to find gum on the roof. Using his feet as a pivot he propelled himself in a circle, then caught himself, and pushed himself into another circle. He enjoyed the rush of dizziness that slowly caught up with him; it was as close as he could get to the gravity pressure he felt when in an aircraft. "So, what is it this time?" 

The moment Keith caught the tense press of Shiro's lips he felt his stomach dip. Shiro's face had a way of hardening before he broke unpleasant news; it was in the stiffness of his mouth, the reinforcement of his gaze and the determined crease between his brows. Automatically, Keith's spinning came to an abrupt halt. 

"There's this event being held in celebration of the announcement of the Kerberos crew," he started, and Keith saw the way his hands came together in front of him, clenching, the skin around his knuckles going pale. "It's a fancy dinner thing, a lot of important people, a lot of press, and a lot of formalities." 

"All things you know I hate," Keith added, unnecessarily, but that was nothing out of the ordinary. 

"Things I'm asking you to attend with me to next Saturday evening." 

" _Shiro_ ," Keith began, tone sharp. 

" _Keith,_ " Shiro pleaded, which had him pausing. "It's a big occasion for me; I'll be presented with my new rank. I'm asking for you to attend in support, it would mean a lot." 

Keith felt guilt stab him in the gut at the way Shiro assumed he would reject the invitation. There were always a few moments in a person's life when they come face to face with the reality of themselves. Looking at Shiro now—the painstakingly clear pleading written in those two dark eyes—it was like looking into a mirror, where Keith could see all the innermost parts of himself through Shiro's eyes. And in Shiro's eyes...Keith wasn't  _there._ In his eyes, Keith was only in it for himself, he loved him anyway, but when it came down to it, he honestly expected no reciprocation from him. Keith had never hated himself more than he did in that moment, seeing this ugly, selfish reflection of himself in Shiro's hopeful eyes. 

So, with determination, like fire in his mouth, Keith responded, "Of course I'll come. Wouldn't miss it for the world." 

Shiro's smile was blinding, just like the first time he smiled at Keith all those years ago, only with less braces and more teeth. He shot to his feet an instant later and lowered himself to crouch in front of Keith, a hand coming to settle heavily on his knee. Keith felt rooted to that touch, all his muscles frozen in an instant. "Thank you, Keith, I know it's not your favourite thing—"

"Doesn't matter," Keith cut him off with a shake of his head. "It's your night." 

"It'll be a good opportunity to get your feet wet in the space program as well. Start meeting some important figures and getting your name out there," Shiro continued, his hand clamping down on his knee in excitement, however, Keith cut him off with a shake of his head. 

"I know you love taking care of people more than anything else, but if this is supposed to be your night, you can't be spending the entire time trying to sell me to a bunch of strangers," he insisted, his hand coming down to rest on top of Shiro's, warm and solid against his palm.  

 _Was that too much?_ he thought with a nervous twist of his gut.

Shiro seemingly didn't notice, however, only offering Keith a gracious smile and a tilt of his head. " _Thank you,_ Keith." 

_No, thank you, Shiro, for reminding me of who I ought to be._

* * *

Dinner that night, however, was unpleasant as the growing pain and sick feeling in his stomach grew beyond measure. He couldn’t eat a thing.

He kept seeing Matt’s eyes on Shiro, and Shiro’s smile on Keith, and Shiro’s lies on his own tongue. He saw Lance’s grin to. He saw all these in flashes and smears against his mind. _Fake, fake, fake,_ his mind chanted.  _They way they all looked at him, all lies, all pretend, all plastic._  

_Why won't anyone look at me with truth in their eyes?_

* * *

Later in the evening, when Keith was removing his uniform in prep for a couple hours of extra study, by Shiro's order, he was surprised when something fell from his pocked. Keith stared down at the small object on the floor in surprise, largely due to the fact that the object was not _his_. Bending down, he picked it up to inspect it.

It was a bullet, warm from being inside his pocket. Keith felt the energy in the room spike with the presence of this new object. Even safely resting in the palm of his hand it felt dangerous _—unpredictable._ His hackles rose. 

He stared hard at the bullet, willing the answers of its appearance into existence, but he only came up empty. 

Then, an idea hit him, much with the intensity of a bullet, ironically. 

Sending a silent apology to Shiro for not getting to his homework, Keith swiftly pulled on a pair of sweatpants and a jumper, pocketed the bullet and snuck out of his room. He was cautious as he made his way through the dorms to the building's exit, avoiding the guards with precise movements and calculations. This wasn’t his first time sneaking out, information he hoped Shiro would never come across. 

Eventually, after making his way through the grounds outside, across the green, through the track and around the endurance course, the cool desert air brushing past his face and ruffling his hair, he made it to his destination. He was immediately annoyed at himself for getting this ridiculous idea when he saw that the door was securely locked to the building.  _Of course,_ it was. This was Galaxy Garrison, the top space exploration school in the country, not as though they'd just leave a security risk open for all at night. 

 _Stupid,_ Keith scolded himself, glaring daggers at the door in front of him, hard enough that he didn't miss the way the light on the door's lock flashed green suddenly. _Oh._ A trill of electricity shot through his veins at the sight and he swiftly leapt forwards to test the door. Unsurprisingly, perhaps not at all for his own good, it cracked open when he gave it a push, the metal cool against his palms. This was likely a very poor decision of Keith's, not that that wasn't an entirely new concept. If a teacher was the one that activated the door and caught Keith...well, let's say he would become _very_ comfortable with detention _very_ quickly. 

Of course, that sensible thought did nothing to stow his curiosity as he pushed the door open enough for him to slip easily inside, closing the it securely behind him. The room he was in was massive; tall ceiling, side walls and a lot of open space. Currently, there was only a single light on, pale and stark against the thick darkness, when Keith went to step towards it he heard a single click. 

 _That_ noise was familiar, and not completely surprising, given what building he was in. His hands rose slowly, steadily, above his head in the universal position of surrender as he swivelled his head around towards the tell-tale noise. He was neither shocked nor thrilled to see who it was who stood there. 

"McClain," Keith greeted calmly. 

"Kogane," Lance replied, equally as calm. The weapon held in his hands was completely still, it's end trained on Keith's head.

He swallowed against the lump in his throat, a sudden pounding going through his ears as he watched Lance's grip on the gun cautiously. He looked  _different_ , for reasons more than the change of clothes—blue jeans and a dark top. Everything right down to his stance felt different, his hands, his hair and most shockingly of all,  _his face._

He wasn't grinning. All trace if his signature smirk and laughing eyes was wiped away, replaced instead by a mask of coldness; eyes like the bottom of the ocean and that mouth set in a straight, expressionless line. Now  _that_ shocked Keith enough that he allowed his face to contort a fraction, enough that it had Lance reacting, head tilting dangerously to the side. He took a couple steps forwards and Keith wondered why he so desperately wanted to step backwards with them. It was just  _Lance._ The idiot who liked to get picked on and kept a bad track record of broken noses. 

Keith couldn't be  _afraid,_ could he? 

_Could he?_

"You know," Lance began, that gun remaining perfectly steady. "I meant it when I said I don't fight back. I don't really defend myself, I laugh it off and act like a passive dumbass. Mostly because I am. But, you know, people can be two things. For example, my mother is, by day, a boring housewife who cleans, cooks and raises three kids, but by night, she takes these crazy advanced salsa dancing classes." 

"Lance, what are you getting at?" Keith interrupted, confused by the rambling.

"I'm not getting at anything, I'm telling you a story.  _My_  story. The version that perhaps only a select few people know. It's the second half of a story they thought was complete." Keith tensed when he saw the way his finger tightened on the trigger, heart thundering crazily in his ears. He couldn't breathe. "Yes, I don't fight back, yes I'm passive, yes I'm an idiot. I don't hit back, but here's the second half, I play." 

He seemed to be waiting for Keith to prompt him into another explanation so he replied, "Play?" 

"Mhmm, you might throw punches, but I pull strings. For example, right now your heart is probably going a million miles a minute, you're likely short of breath and I can see you’re beginning to sweat. You know what that is? That's fear. Standing on the wrong end of a gun is enough to turn even the bravest person into another embodiment of fear. It's drawn out, too, as you wait and wait and wait, imagining the moment it will happen, imaging the pain, the way you'll die, the last thing you'll see. You replay your entire death out before it's even happened, like your mind is preparing you for it. And the moment just goes on and on. And the act of waiting becomes almost worse than the idea of dying. You get me?" 

 _Jesus fucking Christ._ Since when did good, idiotic, fun loving Lance turn into a psycho? Was he going to kill Keith for  _accidentally breaking his nose...again?_

He asked as much. "Are you going to kill me, Lance?" 

Lance's eyes narrowed in on Keith, turning into dark blue slits. Upon his weapon, his hands shifted over the trigger. Keith braced for the shot, imagined the way it would rip through his body, wondered what the pain would be like, wondered if he'd feel any pain at all. Would he die instantly? He felt awful that he'd never get to attend Shiro's dinner now. He'd actually been excited for it too, to an extent. God, why was he such a let down?  

"You're doing it, aren't you?" Lance prompted, softly, barely even a breath of a word. Keith chose to remain stubbornly silent, not giving him the satisfaction. "Is there any particular person on your mind right now?" 

"Fuck you," Keith spat. 

"That's also a typical response of someone waiting to die. Anger. It's such a  _you_  type of response, too," Lance pointed out, and then he fired a single shot, the sound deafening in the tense silence of the room. It cut a split-second line towards Keith, carving the very air it passed. Keith was braced for it, but felt no pain, no impact or end, just a hot flash of air by his ear. Instead he heard it hit one of the targets behind him, and without looking Keith was certain it hit dead centre. He stared wide-eyed, breathing hard, and utterly shocked at Lance. 

"And then there's the moment after—the realisation,  _you're alive._ It goes to your brain all the adrenaline, shock and delayed relief. Everything is still rushing twice as fast through you, your turn cold, your body begins to shake. Some people handle it better than others. But ultimately everyone goes through the strange, altering process of  _I'm still here._ ”

A long pause, Lance’s arm lowering to his side, where he dropped the gun. Keith flinched, expecting it to fire again.

Then:

“You're  _here,_ Keith." 

What the  _fuck_ was going on right now? Every word Lance spoke somehow Keith felt; his head rushing with blood, his body turning cold, his knees beginning to lose their strength, and eventually collapsing completely. But Lance was there, catching him under the arms and hurling him upright again, his face suddenly extremely close. 

"I heard you crying today, saying something about lies the pointlessness of everything." 

Keith reeled back, still feeling himself gasping for air. " _You were there?_ " 

Lance nodded, his hands moving up to brace against Keith's shoulders, holding them both only a hairsbreadth apart for a single, long moment, before pushing away. Somehow Keith caught himself and remained upright, staring at Lance incomprehensibly over the meter of space. 

"And you're  _here,_ Keith. Alive. You know what makes me angrier than people breaking my nose? People forgetting themselves to things that don't matter, they disappear from the real world, retreat into themselves, and then they fester. It makes me fucking _furious_. Now, tell me what makes you mad." 

"What?" Keith shook his head, a hand shakily pushing back his hair which was wet with sweat. 

"Tell me what makes you angry." 

Keith was still so confused that he could only understand one thing at a time, so he followed Lance's lead and answered. "I—suppose, your  _smile._ "

Lance's thin brows twisted, his mouth going sideways in his confusion. "My...smile? Elaborate, please." 

"That plastic smile you do when you're hiding what you really feel. It's the worst. I hate it. I despise it. Just look how you feel. I hate plastic people like you!" He didn't mean to shout the last bit, and winced when it echoed harshly through the building. 

"What do you want to do about it?"

And there it was again—that shit-eating, plastic, bullshit,  _lying_ grin, just daring Keith to—

"I want to break it! I want to smash it to pieces, I want to tear it up, pull it away until I get the _real him_!" 

Silence—dead—apart from the sound of Keith's torn up breaths. 

Then: " _Him?_ " 

Keith shook his head. " _You._ I meant you." 

"Hell no, this isn't about me anymore, this just went astronomically above me!" Lance demonstrated with a great flurry of hand movement Keith guessed was supposed to imitate an explosion. "It's fantastic. Means you and I really have some common middle ground now. We're  _the same._ "

"You tried to shoot me," Keith pointed out dryly.

"No I tried to shoot the target, which I did by the way. Dead centre. I'd ask for an applause but it looks like we've run out of time." 

This had Keith's anger retreating fast into dread. "What do you mean?" Then he heard the shouting.  _The guards. The gunshot._

Clearly Lance saw the realisation hit Keith like a ton of bricks and he held his hands out peacefully in his direction. "Bud, chill. It'll be all good." 

"Shiro is going to kill me," he hissed, staring accusingly at Lance. 

"Oh, Shiro. Is that the mysterious  _him_?" Lance asked. 

"Fuck you!" 

Lance didn’t seem to hear him. "We're gonna be great friends, Keithy boy," he declared, just as the door burst open and five guards rushed through, shouting at them in hard voices. Lance's grin never faltered. "I just know it." 

* * *

They were strapped with detention every lunchtime for a month, plus a permanent stain against their academic names. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characters belong to Dreamworks. 
> 
> It's so hot. I'm gonna melt. 
> 
> Cya.


End file.
